


playing dirty

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian is Mean, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Freddie is Screwed, M/M, Ridge Farm, Teasing, delayed gratification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: “Patience, Freddie, remember?”“God, I knew this was a weird sex thing-”(Brian teaches Freddie about delayed gratification.)





	playing dirty

At first Freddie thinks it’s the sun that wakes him.

It had finally made its long-awaited and welcome appearance across the farm a few days ago, much to the band’s joyous relief, and is now shining brightly through the open window, tapping indolently on Freddie’s eyelids and cocooning him in a pool of warmth. Every part of him feels good, lazy and relaxed, and he stretches into the feeling with a low groan.

The groan catches as he shifts, made involuntarily deep, because a jolt of liquid heat suddenly spikes in his abdomen and Freddie becomes keenly aware that it’s not the sun at all.

A breath of laughter puffs hot against his neck as he stiffens in surprise but the slow hand on his cock doesn’t stop its movements.

“Morning, Freddie.” Brian’s voice is sleep-heavy and tinged with his amusement.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Freddie hums in greeting, shifting his hips instinctively into Brian’s fist and tipping his head back in silent demand for a morning kiss.

Brian ignores both hints, doesn’t tighten his grip or catch Freddie’s open mouth, just keeps his steady pace and grazes his teeth along the side of Freddie’s throat. Freddie swallows, bites his lip. Already his breathing is getting heavy, body caught unawares by pleasure, and his hands tighten in the sheets.

It’s been too long since they’ve had time like this to themselves. Separate rooms on the farm has dictated time apart, which was probably for the best when Freddie’s room shares a wall with Roger’s, and recording an album eats up most of the day. Whenever they’re done in the studio, more often than not they’ve collapsed with the boys downstairs to watch a movie and fall asleep on the sofa. In fact, last night was the closest they’ve managed since arriving, curled up in the old armchair together with Brian whispering in his ear exactly what he’d like to do to Freddie, a low murmur beneath the film score, and Freddie’s body hums with the memory of Brian’s hand, nails biting into his hip, as he spoke.

He seems to be making good now, and Freddie grows slick and shaky under his careful ministrations. Brian doesn’t seem particularly inclined to increase his pace, almost lethargic in the morning sun, and the room fills with the sounds of their breathing, the gentle gasps drawn from Freddie’s lips as pressure begins to build behind his navel.

Thus far, Brian has remained mostly quiet, but for the slight uptick in his breath, which isn’t a rarity in and of itself. While Brian thrives on murmuring absolute filth into Freddie’s ear, drawing him to orgasm with his words as much as his body, he has his more reflective days, thoughtful and curious, and Freddie has mostly learnt to decipher which mood Brian is in on any given day. So it surprises him when Brian speaks up then, and his voice is steady.

“Fred.” If there’s a note of danger in Brian’s voice, Freddie’s head is too clouded to pick up on it immediately. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Last night? Freddie frowns, then gasps as Brian twists his hand and thumbs the head of Freddie’s cock, any hope of rational thought whiting out at the firm press of Brian’s calloused fingers. Brian’s other hand, wide and solid, presses at Freddie’s back, pushes him forward into the mattress, and then Freddie can feel the thick semi-hardness of him pressing against Freddie’s ass and doesn’t even bother to bite back a whimper.

“ _Bri-_ “

“Last night, Freddie?” Brian prompts again, another light kiss at Freddie’s jaw, his fingers falling back into their too-loose, too-gentle, not-quite-enough rhythm, and Freddie fights to get his mind under control. It’s hard work, every nerve in his body is singing Brian’s name, but something primal in him recognises the note in Brian’s voice, the expectation for Freddie to perform, give the right answer in a test, and Freddie wants to hand it to Brian if only to keep his hand moving but, _fuck, he can’t think straight._

“Shall I help you?” Freddie nods, helpless on another upstroke. “It was a little something like this, actually.” Brian slots a knee between Freddie’s thighs, not close enough for Freddie to be able to do anything useful with but enough that he parts his legs easily, and Freddie shivers. Brian kisses behind his ear, feather light but lingering, and the sensation rockets through Freddie’s in perfect tandem with the next flick of Brian’s hand.

Freddie can’t see anything other than the slightest movement of covers, but his imagination is running wild with the intimate knowledge of what Brian’s clever, clever fingers look like wrapped around him, and he moans again at the thought.

“Concentrate, Freddie,” Brian instructs and Freddie is _trying_ but it’s hard when he can feel every inch of Brian pressed up against him, almost surrounding him, pressing him further into the mattress with every movement of his hands, when the hazy sunlight is nothing compared to the heat rising in his belly, when he’s struggling to remember his own name or really anything that isn’t the maddening way Brian’s hand has stilled on his cock waiting for his answer. “Tell me what you remember about last night.”

Freddie’s mind whirs frantically. “Beer,” spills out of him, because there’s a fuzziness to his head that can’t entirely be blamed on the situation at hand here, and Brian hums in approval, gives him another slow pump in reward. “You,” comes next, because it’s an easy point and because Freddie can vaguely remember the two of them stumbling up the stairway, down the hall, kissing and laughing together, all darkness and blurs. Something stirs on the edges of Freddie’s memory, just out of reach. “I- I- _God,_ Brian _, please-”_

“ _You_ ,” Freddie can hear it now, the dangerous edge of Brian’s words, completely at odds with the gentle brush of his lips against Freddie’s cheek, and it takes a second for the next words to register. “Fell asleep, Freddie. Remember now?”

And Freddie does. He remembers. He remembers Brian pushing him back into the pillows, the comforting weight of him as he settled between Freddie’s legs and kissed him so thoroughly that Freddie’s already slightly spinning head has spun right around again. He remembers wrapping his happy-drunk body around Brian’s in every way he could, only obliging to let him go when Brian began kissing his way down Freddie’s neck, his chest, pulling at his jeans until Freddie sprang free and-

Freddie’s eyes fly open in horror, just as Brian removes his hand from Freddie’s boxers with a snap of elastic.

“ _N-_ ” is all he manages, dazed, his body instinctively trying to follow Brian as he leaves the bed. His pulse thuds in his ears. “You- Brian-” His mind catches up a little and he scrambles to a sitting position. “Brian, you _cannot_ be serious.”

Brian is obviously hard in his underwear, achingly so, and his gaze is so dark that Freddie feels a frisson of anticipation under it.

Seeming to come to a decision, Brian comes back to the bed, reaches out a hand and presses a firm thumb to the redness to Freddie’s bottom lip, bitten and bruising. Like this, framed against the sunlit window, Freddie can’t make out the expression on Brian’s face as he leans down, mouth the barest centimetre from Freddie’s so that he can feel the heat of Brian’s breath as he says, “Deadly,” and drops his hand.

Freddie tips forward a fraction but Brian is already gone, across the room and buttoning up a shirt with a terrifying clarity for someone who was just engaging in a spot of morning delight. He doesn’t even seem affected, aside from the obvious, and it’s dawning on Freddie that Brian is going to get dressed and walk out of here if he doesn’t act fast.

“Let me make it up to you, let me blow you,” he offers quickly, eagerly, greedily, and his stomach sinks as Brian simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Darling-”

“You can,” Brian says, voice damningly level, and the corner of his mouth quirks up slowly. Any hope dies a death in Freddie chest even before he adds, “ _Later_.”

He’s having _fun_ , Freddie realises with despair, and falls back into the blankets because Brian playing a game is a Brian who will not play fair in the slightest. He groans in impotent frustration and Brian _, the utter bastard_ , laughs. From under the arm he’s thrown over his face, he glares out at Brian, who finally does up his belt with a definitive and unapologetic click. Any problems Brian was having seem to have begun to dissipate, which is all well and good for Brian, but there’s still a shuddering in Freddie’s body, a ringing in his ears, that could all be eased with just a final _touch_ -

“ _Ah, ah_ ,” Chastises lightly and then a large hand, the large hand that Freddie can still feel the phantom touch of on his cock, loops easily around Freddie’s wrist, pulling his hand deftly away from where it was inching towards the sheets. Before Freddie can do anything else, Brian’s collected up his other wrist in the same hand and is holding them above Freddie’s head, pressing them into the pillows, and this is torture of the cruellest kind because Freddie’s body arches like a bow, quite without his formal agreement. “You should really learn some patience, Fred.” Brian’s voice is all innocent concern, until it dips, drops, presses into the skin by Freddie’s ear. “I won’t fuck you tonight if you don’t.”

Wait- “ _Tonight?”_

“See you at breakfast, Freddie. Big day ahead.” And Brian wanders out of the room, leaving Freddie with the choice to make his own decisions, concoct his own downfall.

Freddie does not go to breakfast.

Freddie takes a very long, very cold, shower and when that doesn’t work he stalks his way into the yard and smokes his way through three cigarettes in quick succession. Where he’s spent the past three weeks cursing the unrelenting drizzle that’s been falling over the farm like a persistent and unwelcome guest, right now he could do with some of its cooling influence. In the bright light of the mid-morning sun he feels exposed, like a live wire, like there’s a magnifying glass shone above him waiting for him to catch fire.

He closes his eyes. Tries to think about something, anything, that isn’t Brian May, but his mind keeps pulling him back upstairs, body crying out for a continuation, a crescendo, and he fails quite miserably. He blinks and sees a flash of Brian’s smirk, can almost feel the bite of Brian’s teeth at his hip. He’s blurring the faded memories of last night with the fresh stamp of this morning’s, can’t tell what’s up and what’s down, and when he turns to find Brian watching him from the doorway it takes him a moment to figure out if he’s real or if Freddie’s conjured him from wishful thinking.

The fact that Brian doesn’t move from the door, doesn’t stride across the yard to bend Freddie over the fencing, is a good indicator that Brian’s real and Freddie scowls at him.

“Sadist,” he accuses, noticing the roll of Brian’s sleeves on his forearm, the glint of his belt, the wetness of his bottom lip. His own mouth itches in response and he licks at the salt there. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am.”

As Freddie passes, huffing and turned on beyond all belief because he hates, _hates_ , that this is working on him, hates that Brian _knows_ that this is working on him because Freddie has never delayed gratification in his _life_ , Brian reaches out. Brushes two fingers along the inside of Freddie’s wrist like Freddie is a guitar for the playing.

It takes all of Freddie’s willpower to keep walking, his head held high and his heart hammering in his ears.

He’s still six different kinds of distracted during the day’s recording. The aching immediacy of interrupted satisfaction fades a little in the presence of Roger and Deaky, reminding Freddie of a world outside of _Brian_ and _Freddie_ and _Sex_ , but the frustration is buried in a very shallow grave.

It’s mostly harmonies in the morning, the four of them crowded into a small space, and Brian keeps intentionally, fucking intentionally, leaning a hand on Freddie’s shoulder as he presses closer to the mic, his breath hot and close to Freddie’s ear, his neck, and on one occasion slips his hands onto Freddie’s hips to move him slightly to the side, which is when Freddie snaps.

“Unless you’re planning on doing something useful with those hands, _darling_ ,” he hisses, and Brian’s eyes catch alight and darken at the vitriol in his voice. “Get them fucking _off_ me.”

There’s a pause where they’re staring at each other, Freddie glaring, Brian grinning because he’s an awful, awful man, then John speaks up.

“Everything okay here?” He checks, sounding like he really wishes he didn’t have to be the one asking this.

Freddie exhales, straightens his shoulders. “Fucking fantastic.” He smiles but it feels more like a baring of his teeth. “Shall we go again?”

After a quick break of sandwiches, that Freddie can’t even _enjoy_ because while Brian engages John in arbitrary conversation about the equipment they’re using today, the long line of his thigh is pressed tight against Freddie’s under the table, it’s Freddie alone in the studio for lead vocals and he takes a couple moments to calm down in the sudden absence of the others.

The attempt doesn’t last when the microphone clicks on to Brian’s voice quietly instructing, “Ready when you are, Freddie.”

It’s a pitiful performance. The tension in Freddie’s body wavers out his voice; he sounds reedy and stressed and it shows painfully in the playback. It doesn’t help his mood in the slightest. In fact, he goes from a low level of frustration to practically murderous hearing himself back, and when Brian, with a smirk that apparently only Freddie can hear beneath the concern, suggests that maybe Freddie’s not feeling up to it today, Freddie turns with a serious contemplation in that direction.

“Fuck you,” he says acidly.

Brian _tsk_ s softly, raises an eyebrow, and Freddie feels his cheeks burn. “Patience, Freddie, remember?”

“God, I _knew_ this was a weird sex thing-” Roger moans, cut off by John’s elbow in his ribs.

Freddie ignores them all. “Put on _Sweet Lady_ ,” He demands, and marches back into the sound booth.

This time, Freddie’s angry. He’s annoyed and wound up, betrayed by how much his body is still _singing_ with every quiet remark, every heated look, every smug turn of Brian’s lips, and when it shows in the song this time it _works_. He can hear the power behind the words as he relistens, and though he goes back in a couple more times to really hammer home some of the notes, he’s satisfied with the way he sounds.

He turns to where Brian’s quietly listening, face thoughtful, and is about to gloat something vicious but the words die halfway to his lips as Brian lifts his gaze from the sound desk and finds Freddie unerringly.

“Sounds perfect, Fred,” He says, voice all quiet approval as he sits back in his chair. “Exactly what I wanted.”

Freddie gapes. He’s been on the back foot since he woke up this morning, turned about and scrambling to match Brian, failing at every turn, and he honestly thought he’d come out on top this time. But Brian has a tight grip on the upper hand and isn’t letting go for anything.

He can’t decide if he wants to throw himself at Brian’s feet, on his mercy, or whether to throw a punch. The whole thing is making him knotted, sticky hot and slow, and while they’ve played games before it’s never been quite like this. Freddie’s never been kept waiting for anything longer than a show, and even then he could keep himself occupied, dazzling in the light of an adoring audience and wicked whenever he wandered towards Brian. He’s tempted to try that tact now, see if it gets him anywhere, but something in the line of Brian’s shoulders, the tilt of his neck, the unwavering line of his regard over Freddie, that makes him certain that Brian won’t give him what he wants until Brian’s ready to give it to him.

He doesn’t know how he’s possibly expected to put up with this but, obviously, Brian expects it

Recording finishes for the day and Freddie is disgustingly eager for the setting of the sun. But as the slow descent begins, someone, he thinks Roger, because Roger is a terrible terrible friend, suggests the pool. Which, no, absolutely not. Freddie can only begin to imagine the torment Brian would inflict upon him and Freddie does - not that any of the other three would believe it with his cheeks growing progressively pinker all day - have some shred of dignity left to his name. So while the other three blow off steam in the dying light, Freddie sits inside and stubbornly examines the cracks in the ceiling for as long as he can stand.

He gets bored _very_ quickly.

Brian does at least have the grace not to crow when Freddie slinks his way outside, takes a seat on a sun bed that’s not dangerous but close enough that he can bask in the sounds of his friends laughing, but that might be because he’s decided to ignore Freddie for a little while, let him simmer, which for once is just fine by Freddie.

He could slip asleep like this, he thinks. The final hurrah of the day’s sun is still achingly hot, and the buzzing in Freddie’s body has subsided enough to be almost pleasurable once again, creating a delightful humming that he could give himself over to quite easily. Roger is laughing somewhere, mischievous. The gentle lapping of the water at the pool’s edges is quite soothing, and the splashes make him smile when he hears Brian shout indignantly, Deaky’s responding snickers.

His peace doesn’t last. Brian May is on a dedicated campaign, a steady siege of Freddie’s mind and body, and it’s not long before his tall shadow falls across the bed Freddie’s claimed for his own.

Freddie tilts his head back, determined to maintain a firm stance this time.

It’s hard when Brian’s swimming shorts are so painfully short.

“Not coming in, Fred?” Brian asks, voice all innocence that Freddie doesn’t believe for a second as he leans down, braces himself on the arms of Freddie’s lounger so he’s less than a yard away. His usual mess of curls is damp, dripping slightly, and the curls have loosened a little in the wet. Freddie has to tamp down the urge he gets to play with the closest one, twirl it around his finger and admire the twist of it. “Water’s lovely.”

Freddie’s resolution to keep silent breaks instantly. “I’m not even going to _want_ to sleep with you later,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. The action makes him realise how close Brian is, how penned in Freddie is right now. “Very unattractive quality, you know, being such a sore winner.”

The eyebrow Brian quirks is a slow rise. The rest of the world fades out to a dull roar as Brian leans in closer, so his words are just for Freddie. “Oh, I don’t think so.” His voice is matter-of-fact, barely a murmur, and still Freddie’s body reacts embarrassingly quickly when he says, “No, I think I could have you now and you’d _beg_ for it.”

Freddie swallows.

Suddenly he can see it, the way Brian could grasp his knee and push it aside, bite down at his lips, his neck, chest wet and pressed to Freddie, the way he’d crowd him, hide him from the world as he rolled inside and told Freddie he was good and perfect and tight.

The truth of it is blinding, and Freddie’s mouth dries up any witty retort he could have managed.

Saying it must not be enough. Brian must need some kind of sick proof, and apparently Freddie’s all too willing to hand it over, because when Brian closes the distance between them, the tip of his nose grazing against Freddie’s, Freddie automatically tips his head, closes his eyes, to receive a kiss that doesn’t come.

When he opens them, Brian is close enough that Freddie could press up and steal his mouth if he tried, which makes it worse when Freddie doesn’t.

The sun sets on them like that, the last dregs of light caught in Brian’s curls, bouncing off the water on his shoulders. The heat lingers on even without the light, but the darkness summons Roger and John from the pool, loud and dripping, and Brian pulls away, leaving Freddie breathless in the night.

“Cards, anyone?” He hears Brian suggest, shrugging on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and decides that if he’s got any chance at getting through whatever trial Brian has next for him, he needs a cigarette.

After his second one, Roger comes back over to fetch him. He wordlessly hands over a beer with wary concern as Freddie watches the whorls of smoke disappear in the dark and tries to organise the fraying edges of his thoughts, all of them spiralling, spinning, leading toward _BrianBrianBrian_.

He accepts, if only to press his forehead to the cool, damp bottle, and tries to remember what control looks like.

Then, as if Roger can’t help himself any more, “What did you _do_?”

“You don’t want to know,” Freddie says, more out of self-preservation than of an unwillingness to dish to Roger, just as Roger says, “Actually, I don’t want to know.”

“Can you keep your shit together for a couple rounds of cards?”

“Not sure I have much choice,” Freddie mutters to himself, but joins anyway.

Cautious after Brian’s lunchtime antics, he purposely plants himself as far away from Brian as he can, which brings its own set of struggles when Brian deals the first hand of cards, holds Freddie’s gaze over the table as he does so. Freddie puts a hand to his neck, reaches for his untouched beer to try and wash the heat away, then pauses with his fingertips just shy of the glass.

Beer got him into this situation.

He bites his lip, raises questioning eyes to Brian, who doesn’t give a hint one way or the other. Freddie swallows thickly, then goes to fetch himself a glass of water. When he gets back, his bottle is sitting flush against Brian’s, moved out of reach, and knows he made the right decision. Not enough to earn him reprieve, but maybe it’ll count in his favour later.

Deaky raises an loaded eyebrow at him as he gulps heavily at his water, and Freddie kicks him under the table.

They play several rounds on the veranda in the waning evening light. Freddie can hear the buzz of insects, the crackle of their cigarettes, the slick fizz of the beers on the table, all acute and overwhelming as he tries to keep track of his hand.

While Brian and John nurse their drinks - and the pointed way Brian sips at his is a promise Freddie thrills at the giving - Roger descends into a moderate, pink-faced inebriation beside Freddie. Freddie doesn’t feel like he’s faring much better even stone cold sober because somewhere around their second game, he started getting distracted by Brian’s hands; the long length of his fingers and how they stroked at the cards he held.

“Fred,” Roger’s impatient voice snaps him back to himself. “Your deal.”

“ _O_ _h_.” Freddie shakes his head. “Sorry, darling.” He shuffles the deck quickly, then blinks down at the table. “...What were we playing?”

John hides a laugh behind his hand as Roger sighs. “Remind me why we’re a part of their freaky foreplay?”

“Well, you can leave whenever you fucking like, dear,” Freddie reminds him irritably because he himself can’t, begins throwing out cards with bad grace, only to find his wrist caught as he tries to hurl two towards Brian.

He stills.

“Get upstairs,” Brian says evenly, and Freddie immediately, humiliatingly, feels the words pulse through him, like a note on Brian’s guitar.

He doesn’t even stop to reply to Roger’s half-amused, half-disgusted, “Oh god we need to evacuate,” though he thinks he hears Brian do so. Then he hears Brian following him, usual loping gait quickening, and practically sprints up the stairs, electric anticipation zinging up his spine.

Something instinctive in his body feels chased, hunted down by a steady predator finally descending for the kill, and results in him panicking at the top of the stairs, torn between their two rooms. A stair creaks behind him, and he darts into his. It’s bigger, Brian’s bed squeaks, and this began in Freddie’s room hours ago. They can finish it here too.

He’s barely over the threshold when Brian catches him, long fingers finding his wrist once again and _pulling_. Freddie goes, easily, eagerly, all sour complaints about Brian’s torments and teases gone on a breath that Brian steals as he takes Freddie’s mouth messily. Freddie gasps into the kiss. It’s hard and furious and the first true indication he’s had all day that Brian’s been as affected by their little game as he has.

“God, you’re bad at this,” Brian bites into his bottom lip, and Freddie bites back, bites harder, feels Brian smirk into the next run of kisses that takes them across the room, stops them just shy of the bed.

“I hated it,” Freddie lies in between the urgent presses of their mouths. “You’re such a- _bastard_.”

Brian hums agreement and even that sends rockets through Freddie’s lips down into the very core of him. Their hands are everywhere, everywhere, grabbing fistfuls of clothing, tugging at hair. Freddie hears a rip somewhere and hopes it’s Brian’s shirt.

A second longer and Freddie’s knees would give up, buckle and pull them to the floor, and while he’s so undeniably desperate right now that he wouldn’t give a fuck about being taken on the hideous scratchy rug so long as Brian did it rough and did it now, he’s absently thankful that Brian topples them onto the bed.

Brian’s back on him in a heartbeat, crawling over him, and a hand slides under Freddie’s waist to hitch him further up the mattress, pull him tighter. Freddie lets himself be moved, focuses on what he has closest to him, the tempting lull of Brian’s throat, and nips at the sweat-salt skin there. Brian hisses above him, his hips giving an involuntary roll against Freddie’s, and Freddie’s head falls back into the covers as he feels Brian, thick and hard, through the still slight-dampness of his shorts. His thighs fall open and Brian slots between them perfectly.

“You looked good today,” Brian says with his eyes locked on Freddie’s, watching his pleased-flush reaction or maybe just making sure the words hammer home. He palms Freddie, gentle at first, then rougher. “Waiting for me.”

The words get lost for a second on the way to Freddie’s mouth, distracted by Brian flicking open his top button with his thumb. “You didn’t give me much say in the matter, dear.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so well-behaved,” Brian continues, as if Freddie hadn’t spoken, freeing Freddie’s straining cock from his trousers. Freddie moans as the air hits him, and elects not to mention the times he snapped, glared, swore and generally threw a foul mood at Brian all day. If Brian wants to think that was well-behaved, that’s fine by him. “I didn’t think you’d last past lunch.”

Brian’s voice is starting to fade out, ring around Freddie’s ears, because all Freddie is aware of now is the too-loose ring of fingers around his cock, the awful tease of it, because this is what he’s been on the edge of all day but it’s not what he _needs_ , not what he was _promised_. He hitches his hips and gets them pinned with one large hand for his trouble. He whines, and Brian leans down to lick the sound from his mouth.

“Fuck me,” Freddie gasps, or maybe it’s a sob. It’s definitely not the demand he’d hoped it would be. “ _Brian, please_.”

“Off,” Brian says instead of answer, tugging at Freddie’s trousers, and Freddie kicks them off frantically, yanks at Brian’s shirt until he’s gotten rid of that too.

The world shifts. Freddie yelps in surprise, clings to Brian’s shoulders until Brian has him settled in his lap, then there’s fingers pushing at Freddie’s lips. Freddie opens his mouth instantly, taking in Brian’s fingers and laving them with his tongue. He closes his eyes, lifts a hand to keep Brian’s in place, and takes them in as deep as he can. He hears Brian’s breathing hitch, as if they haven’t done this a hundred times before, and only parts with the digits when he’s satisfied that they’re truly slick and that Brian’s harder than ever, pressed up through his shorts against the curve of Freddie’s ass.

Then Brian’s stretching him, slow and pressing at first, before he starts fucking Freddie open in earnest, arm wrapping around his waist to keep him on his lap. Freddie clutches back, digs his nails into Brian’s shoulders, and they rock that way, foreheads pressed together as they watch Brian’s hand disappear into Freddie’s body, the way Freddie’s cock, trapped between them, traces shiny lines against their stomachs.

They’re breathing raggedly together, anything clever Brian had left to say seemingly disappeared because when he deems Freddie ready, he doesn’t give a warning.

“ _God_ ,” Freddie moans, as Brian begins pushing up inside.

It’s not the easiest position, but Freddie treasures every burn, every hitch of Brian’s hips, because Freddie has been adrift and unmoored all day and this, finally this, anchors him back to earth, to Brian, as Brian bottoms out inside him, pauses to catch his breath.

Then Brian lifts his head, and even with his eyes so dark and echoing back the _need_ Freddie feels coursing through his nerve-endings, there’s a glint of silent expectation. Freddie, it seems, is not fully off the hook.

At this point, Freddie couldn’t give less of a fuck. Brian’s hand falls to the small of his back as a guide, but Freddie doesn’t need it. He rolls his hips, gives his weight over to Brian’s hands, and lifts himself, sinks back down onto Brian’s cock again, and again, until it’s all he can feel. That, and the steady gaze of Brian watching him, the tight grip of his fingers at Freddie’s hips.

His thighs start to burn, the way they do during the encore of a show, earned by hours of performing, and he gasps as Brian seems to sense this, moves his large hands to grab the muscles there, and Freddie’s thighs have always been sensitive, have always been Brian’s favourite place to bite and suck possessive marks into the flesh there, and any bruises there have faded in the past few weeks but he can feel Brian making new ones now purely with the pads of his thumbs.

Without Brian’s hands at his back, Freddie can’t lift himself anymore, resorts to rocking, hot and panting, in Brian’s lap. The bed is creaking beneath them, brought low by their desperation. Freddie can’t keep his eyes open, his head up, and tucks his face into Brian’s neck, panting, and it takes him a moment to realise that Brian is saying something, biting it into his ear, his neck, his cheek.

“So good,” Brian is saying, and a hand moves to Freddie’s cheek, holds him firm, pulls him so that Freddie is facing him and Brian can kiss the words into his lips, gentle touch so at odds with the fast pace of their hips. “So good for me, you’ve done so well, baby, so well.”

Brian May never plays fair. The words sink deep and low into Freddie’s body and Brian punctuates them by finally, _finally_ , thrusting up, which is too good, too much, and it’s not many more before Freddie comes, helpless and undone.

It’s good, it’s so fucking good. It’s a storm that’s been building in Freddie all day, cresting and rolling, and Freddie feels lit up all the way to the tips of his toes which curl in the sheets. It’s entirely worth the day’s torment, which means there’ll be absolutely no living with Brian after this, but the thought is there and gone again, swept away on the tide of Freddie’s climax.

Hand still cupping his jaw, Brian kisses him through it, deep, still working between Freddie’s thighs. Freddie shudders, shakes with sensations, with the feeling of his body finally reaching the end of a marathon hard ran, with the feeling of Brian loving him like this, and as he tightens, Brian pulls Freddie closer, fucks up harder and comes inside of him with a low groan.

They fall into the sheets together, or maybe Brian falls back and pulls Freddie with him, but Freddie finds himself pressed into Brian’s chest, with Brian’s hand running up his back and Brian’s heart hammering beneath his cheek. A cool breeze floats through the open window to raise goosebumps along Freddie’s skin and it’s pure relief at the end of a long day, the dip in a pool after hours in the scorching sun, a soothing balm to all of Freddie’s frayed nerves.

He waits for his breathing to find something resembling a rhythm before he lifts his head.

“That,” He says, and despite the relative quiet of their lovemaking, no spare moment for shouts or suggestive moans, Freddie’s voice is wrecked. “Was awful.”

A breath of laughs huffs out from between Brian’s lips. “Liar. Water?”

“Please.”

A quick kiss pressed to Freddie’s shoulder and Brian goes. The whole thing would be awfully reminiscent of this morning if Freddie weren’t stretching out in the covers, sated and happy, and if Brian weren’t back in under a minute, cleaned up and holding a cool glass for them to share sips from.

They re-find their positions, bodies like compasses finding each other as true north. All day the slightest hint of a touch from Brian had wound Freddie tighter than a drum. Now it’s an easy comfort.

“You did very well,” Brian says again, as if it means more after the fact, and maybe it does. Freddie’s never really sure what to do when Brian gets like this, sincere with the compliments he bestows during sex, but it settles something in Freddie’s stomach all the same.

Instead of answering, he asks, eyebrow raised, “Will I be punished again if I sleep now?”

There’re scratches in Brian’s shoulders from Freddie’s nails. Freddie can feel his lips are swollen and pink from Brian biting at them. There’s a delicate and sticky ache between his legs and if his thighs are on fire he’s sure Brian’s are too. All this and yet all Freddie can feel is the utter contentment of satisfaction. He thinks, as his body grows heavy, that this might be the first night in a while that he’ll be able to sleep and sleep without the additional help of a couple of beers to quiet the buzzing from everything the album is, everything he can’t turn off in his head.

Brian laughs again, shakes his head. “Not tonight,” he promises and when he doesn’t move, doesn’t release his hold on Freddie to let him roll off him, Freddie decides that falling asleep here, sprawled on top of the warm, lean body of the man he loves is what he deserves after his torments of the day.

He can hear the world bleeding back in, movements of the farmhouse below; voices from somewhere outside, footsteps on creaking floors, doors shutting periodically. Someone somewhere is running a shower and Freddie can hear it through the moaning pipes. Brian’s breath, steady and even once again.

He focuses on that last and closes his eyes.

 


End file.
